Do-Si-Do
by storybycorey
Summary: Post Plus One: Twenty-five years. You'd think they'd have mastered the steps by now. You'd think they'd have come to an agreement about ballroom or country or disco. You'd think a silly little thing like where you fall in queue shouldn't matter. And most especially, you'd think that knocking three times would be as simple as it gets.


Oh, my darling, knock three times  
On the ceiling if you want me  
Twice on the pipe  
If the answer is no

Oh, my sweetness (knock, knock, knock)  
Means you'll meet me in the hallway  
Oh, twice on the pipe  
Means you ain't gonna show

-Tony Orlando and Dawn, 1970

It's a dance. She knows this of course. Sometimes an elegant waltz, sometimes an upbeat boot-scootin' boogie. Only often, while she's busy onnne-two-three-ing, he's doing quite the opposite, stomping and kick-ball-changing beside her. By the time the music's stopped playing, they're turned around breathless, spread halfway across the dance floor.

She remembers square dancing in middle school gym class. Girls lined up on one side of the gym and boys on the other. Tyler Jones, studious and handsome, eighth boy down. They were destined for each other, her twelve-year-old heart was sure of it. She'd swapped places until she was eighth, too, cheeks pink and butterflies in her tummy. Carol Beckett had a last-minute change of heart though, and Scully wound up do-si-do-ing with Erik Jenkelman instead, much to the chagrin of her broken little twelve-year-old heart.

She sees Tony Orlando and Dawn in Mulder and herself, desperately in love but also somehow desperately unable to coordinate their timing. When he's knocking thrice, she's tapping twice, when he's hanging from the window, she's out looking in the hall. It's exhausting at times, navigating this language they've spent a quarter of a century writing, re-writing, then re-writing again.

Twenty-five years. You'd think they'd have mastered the steps by now. You'd think they'd have come to an agreement about ballroom or country or disco. You'd think a silly little thing like where you fall in queue shouldn't matter. And most especially, you'd think that knocking three times would be as simple as it gets.

You'd be wrong though. Twenty-five years has taught her that much.

She's finally accepted that Mulder and she just aren't dancers, at least not in any traditional sense. There are too many steps to learn, too many rules. They're not good at following rules. Maybe a long time ago, but— What they _are_ good at is almost connecting then drifting away, colliding with force then ricocheting back, and then sometimes, just _sometimes_ , meeting beautifully, unexpectedly, perfectly in the middle, spiraling until they've collapsed into an exquisite tangle on the floor, a sailor's knot that would rival the cleverest of fingers.

What neither has figured out though is how to stay there, without ever, ever loosening.

….

Things are decent now, or as decent as they can be with the end of the world hanging over their heads, with assassins on their tails and a son sending telepathic messages via her over-addled brain. They spend time together, and beyond the occasional tiff about his junk food addiction or her preference for CNN over MSNBC, they actually seem to enjoy it. She's reclaimed her spot on the old brown couch, and each time she visits, her rear nudges just the fewest centimeters closer to his. She still considers it her home; she just doesn't happen to be living there at the moment, that's all. In the context of their relationship though, that minor discrepancy seems perfectly par for the course. They've always done things a little out of order anyway.

This current case though. There's just something... She's always prided herself on being a confident woman, unswayed by petty insecurities. Mulder whispering "kick-ass" into her ear never fails to make her blush. She delights in proving her independence to him; in fact, sometimes he'd say she delights in it a bit too much.

But then, there are those days, those very rare days, when there aren't enough rooms at the inn, when actresses-cum-mental patients hold a mirror to her face, when Mulder looks her in the eye and grins in a way that reminds her of who she was fifteen, twenty years ago, and it's all she can do not to crumble at his feet. They're aging and they're floundering. She's in her fifties, yet still has no clue the next series of steps. How the hell does she position her arms and her feet when she's not even sure they're on the same dance floor?

"You've still got it going on," he tells her with a grin, and for a moment she's twelve years old again, Tyler Jones catching her eye across varnished maple smelling of old gym socks. She counts her place in line—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven. So close. But Judy's words are stubborn, they're alive, and by the time he tells her to "knock three times", her knuckles are already poised at the pipe. She feels like the most dreaded, dreary waltz sometimes— tight pinched taffeta dress—while he's over there kicking his heels up in a samba.

….

Evil doppelgangers. The devil. It irks her that she's actually considering it.

When she was a little girl, her grandmother told her stories about the angel and the devil that lived on her shoulders. In some sense she understood they weren't real, were simply the good and the bad inside of her, but when she shoved Charlie to the floor or snuck a piece of Missy's birthday candy, she couldn't deny the cheering she heard in one ear and the tut-tut-tutting in the other. They've transformed now, those opinionated sprites, one building her up just as quickly as the other drags her down, and it depends on the day which is loudest.

Irritatingly, Little Devil Dana seems to have been taking voice lessons this week.

….

When he wakes her at night for the second time, it's both familiar and strange. They spent years sharing a bed, yet his big man shadow above her is different now. Is he the one who's changed or has she? She's so tightly wound, she can barely appreciate his broad brown chest, his sleep-roughened voice— isn't quite sure she's allowed. She wonders whether his soft gray tank is one from the three-packs she used to buy, or if he's replaced those with new ones. She wonders what Little Judy would say about the fact that she has one of those tanks at her apartment, stuffed in the back of her sock drawer alongside pictures of William.

It's funny though, how blood and dismemberment never fail to calm her nerves. Splattered red walls and unanswered questions have followed them through thick and thin, they've lurked in the background since the day they met. If nothing else, they still have the work, they can still bicker their way to a conclusion like the old days. At least that hasn't changed. Rolling her eyes at Mulder's theories near midnight is the most comfortable thing in the world.

Evil doppelgangers. Absurd. She can't believe she gave the concept more than a passing thought. She can't believe she's so worked up about life in general this week. It's good. Things are _good_ right now.

She's almost convinced herself how good they are, in fact, making her away across pavement beneath the flashing lights, when she makes the mistake of glancing up. The deadened eyes that glare at her through the crowd are startling, downright chilling. They're Judy's words, they're that devil on her shoulder, they're Mulder allemande-ing left off the dance floor with Carol Beckett instead of her. And just like that, the doubts creep in again.

When she's finally caught her breath, she squares up her shoulders and climbs in the car. Mulder jokes about games of Hangman and dismembered body parts. She pastes a grin to her face and repeats in her head until they reach the hotel _Things are good, things are good, things are good._

….

She dreams about Judy, pretty young thing, bright Hollywood starlet up on the big screen. About William, gazing at her as though she's the sun. Mulder, the taste of his lips the first time he kissed her. Tony and Dawn, finally connecting, dancing and dancing through the night. There's light and there's sunshine and her hair is warm against her head. She smiles until her cheeks ache.

But then there's a shift, just the slightest off-kilter tilt beneath her feet. She stumbles, realizing suddenly how gray it's become. She's struggling back up when the wind starts— cold, damp, the kind that runs shivers down your spine. The hairs on her arms stand on end. The music stops, and the sound of William's cry carries through the air. There's an awful, awful hollow in her throat. A billow of dust kicks up and opens its mouth, swallowing, swallowing— there go Tony and Dawn, there goes Judy, there go Mulder and William. She forgets how to square dance, she forgets how to waltz, she forgets how Mulder's neck tastes in the early morning…

She startles awake, sucking mouthfuls of air through her lungs. It's a full five minutes before her breathing calms and her heart stops racing. The ceiling above her has cracks in it, and she imagines for a moment it caving in. She breathes, in and out.

It's eerie, her mind so frighteningly alive yet the air around her so dead. She's struck by the stillness—the heavy, empty quiet. The absolute vacuum that exists in the wee dark hours of the morning. Her chest hurts and her tongue still tastes like dust.

She feels.

So.

Alone.

….

He doesn't notice her at first, and she wavers, her body swaying to and fro in the warmth of his room. The air in here isn't dead, it's not hollow, not quiet. It's full of his breath and his scent. It's full of _him_. In the moonlight she can see, just barely, freckles sprinkled across the slopes of his shoulders. He looks peaceful and that scares her, that she's in turmoil and he seems happy. She doesn't know what she's doing.

He wakes and he turns though, and the warmth and security of his chest call so loudly to her, she aches with it. It's three in the morning and she's not strong enough to resist. "Can you hold me?" she asks, and as she climbs across the bed, memories stumble over themselves in her brain. Wrapped in Mulder's arms has always been her safest place, regardless of how synchronized their dance is at the time.

She breathes, allows herself to really feel it— _him_. It's been two years. And suddenly, she knows for the rest of her life, the word "home" will mean nothing but this. Nothing but his warmth against her back and his chin at her shoulder. It scares her to think of a time he won't be here. Everything scares her right now.

"What's gonna happen?" she asks, and as they continue to speak, she's not even sure what she's asking. The question is so complex— it's twenty-five years worth of the unknown, boiled and simmered and strained, pared down to just three hesitant, overwhelming words.

They talk in circles, two steps forward, one step back, toes dipping deeper and deeper while his hand grows heavier and warmer against her hip. And though their words may be trivial at times, the underlying questions still burrow deep. _Where do we stand, Mulder? What is our future? How much have I hurt you, can you ever forgive me? Can you promise me we'll never fall again as far we did? Are you still eighth in line, and if so… am I eighth, too?_

"What if we lose our jobs?" is her final question, and though she knows in her heart their jobs have little to do with it, it's the only way she can think to ask. _Mulder… am I "home" to you, too?_

" _Then_ what would we do?" he asks, handing the decision back to her. Equals in everything— in work, in life, in love, in this convoluted dance they never seem to get quite right. Suddenly there only seems one answer. They've got to pick up those dance shoes and relearn the steps. They've got to try.

His eyes as she turns in his arms are soft, inviting. As long as she's known him they've made her feel safe. "We'll think of something," she flirts with a grin, but inside, she's trembling. This is far more than sex, far more than just a feel-good distraction from her nagging insecurities. They both understand that.

"Will we?" he murmurs, and his fingers twitch against her belly. She looks into his eyes, smile fading away. She's lost herself in his them countless times through the years, but this is different. It's familiar and thrilling, plus a myriad of other emotions, but overwhelmingly, it's… _right_. She lifts her hand to place it against his chest. His heartbeat thrums just as quickly beneath her palm as her own does beneath her breast. She curls her fingers into a fist and takes a breath, then knocks lightly at his sternum—

One… two… three.

"I'm knocking, Mulder," she whispers. He grips her fist against soft gray cotton, threads his fingers through her own.

"God bless Tony Orlando," he murmurs, but there's not a stitch of humor in his eyes.

He squeezes her hand, draws it up to his mouth and skids his lips across her knuckles like stepping stones. Back and forth, back and forth. Her eyes flutter shut. He did this to her in a jail cell, fifteen years ago— another new beginning. How many new beginnings are they allowed in a lifetime? "Scully," he murmurs against her skin, "You're sure?"

She wants him, disco or country or ballroom, doesn't matter. She's not sure of a million other things about her life right now, but she's sure of that. She opens her eyes and nods.

He presses a kiss to her palm as the buzz of the air conditioner kicks in. From somewhere, she swears she hears the distant strains of music. The Blue Danube or Turkey in the Straw, she can't quite place it, or maybe it's the— _oh_.

His fingers alight on the skin of her abdomen and she sucks in a breath, hips canting forward in response. "God," she gasps.

"Okay?" he whispers, and she nods again, letting out a half-chuckle at her nerves. It's new and it's old, and she remembers the thrill of the day she finally got her dance with Tyler Jones, for only a minute, when his partner spun the wrong way and she was there instead.

His fingers draw lazy hieroglyphs across her skin while she portions out quickened breaths. His sheets smell of him, _he_ smells of him, and there's an arousing sort of comfort in that. With a trembling hand, she grasps his wrist, then slowly, surely, guides him beneath the silk of her pajamas towards her breast. Warm, his hand is so warm. She sighs when he finally cups her fullness, gasps when he thumbs across her nipple.

"Mulder," she breathes, and pulls him to her, pressing her mouth against his lips and gripping his tank top in her fist. She'd forgotten how large his hands are, forgotten how those five slender fingers can make her feel. He kneads her breasts until she's dizzy, until she's arching against him and unbuttoning her top, until she's whimpering and aching for more.

She's missed the warm soft curl of his hand at her waist, she's missed the way just the barest shift of his shoulders is enough to pull her close. His tongue in her mouth, his knee between her legs, the rhythmic tilt of his hips. She's missed, she's missed, she's missed.

His moan rumbles against her throat when she shoves down her pants, when she takes his hand and cups it against her curls. His fingers slip inside her slowly, gently, and the long-lost ache of it makes her want to sob. She clutches at his neck, presses her forehead against his own, breathes in his air. She's wet, she can hear herself, and she lifts her hips to urge him on while he pumps lazily in and out. His thumb finds her clit and circles. God, he was always so good at this. Why does it even matter whether they're doing the proper steps when it feels as right as this?

"Missed this…," she sighs, and he adds another finger. She takes his lip between her teeth and tugs. Her leg hooks over his thigh, and he pumps even harder. Harder, harder, just the way he knows she likes, just the way he used to do, until she's panting and humming, bunching his shirt into her fist.

"Feel good?" he breathes, and his lips slide across her forehead, they press kisses into the damp, wild strands of her hair.

"Mmmmm," she hums, and it does. It feels divine. It's waltzing in a garden on a Spring afternoon, it's meeting him at midnight in the bowels of the basement, it's making love on the rundown porch of their rundown house with their rundown bodies and yet still begging for more. She comes against his fingers with a sob, twitching and rolling, sucking on the salt of his shoulder.

He lays beside her, brushes the hair from her cheeks and shushes her lingering whimpers. He's always taken such good care of her. She turns to him, running her palm over his way-beyond-five-o'clock shadow. "Scratchy beard," she whispers. It's a long-running tease between them, but the truth is, they both know she loves it. It's such a simple thing, but she hasn't felt that shadow in so very long.

Her fingers follow the strong angled line of his jaw around to his mouth, then play there at his lips, nudging, stroking, until they're allowed inside. His mouth is hot and wet, and when he sucks her thumb against his tongue, she feels it in her toes.

"I think it's your turn now," she murmurs with a smile.

"Not necessary," he mumbles around her fingers, grasping her wrist and holding it there, nibbling each finger in turn.

She slips free, swinging her leg across his hips, rolling her body on top of the big, hardened mess of him. "Oh, but Agent Mulder…," she leans across his chest and whispers in his ear, "I very much disagree."

His hands land on her hips and he squeezes. The long, hard length of him nudges against her pubic bone, and it's the most familiar thing in the world. She grinds her hips in circles until he groans. They work together to get his shorts down and she takes him in her hand, strokes him, slides him between the warm, wet heat of her legs. Her clit is still over-sensitized, and just that is enough to make her moan. His hands brush up the curves of her waist until they meet her breasts, and then he's pinching her nipples, rolling them between thumb and forefinger in that way he perfected close to twenty years ago. This. This is where they excel. Together like this, laid open before one another— _this_ is where they remember how to dance.

She poises herself above him, pauses, allows herself to feel the weight of the moment. Their breaths are ragged but in sync, and as she takes him in her hand to guide him, he runs his thumb across her cheek. Looking deeply in his eyes, she sinks her body down—slowly, slowly, until so she's full of him, she's overflowing. Home. There's just no other way to describe it.

He lets out a low and agonized groan, then grips her by the ass and undulates his hips. Then together, they begin to move. And yes, oh yes. She takes his glove-clad outstretched hand and she curtsies before him. He pulls her in close to his heart. And they dance and they dance and they dance.

The rhythm is familiar and alive, and she falls against his chest, drapes herself over the heat of him and allows it to sing through her veins. She tucks her nose beneath his jaw and dips out her tongue. She remembers her dream, the panic of forgetting his taste. Now, she laps him up like honey.

He takes her by the shoulders, arms across the slick of her back, and he anchors her. "Scully," he murmurs against her ear, "Honey…," and he thrusts deep and hard, again and again and again.

It's overwhelming and it's perfect, and she feels herself spinning. They've always done so well at this part; they've barely even had to try. God, even the most gorgeously choreographed waltz could never feel as wonderful as this.

He's close, she can tell, and she urges him on, grinds herself down while he clutches at her skin, kisses him until their mouths have gone sloppy, just lips and tongues and their sharp, quick breaths. Soon he's moaning, he's gritting his teeth, and it's been so long since she's been able to make him feel good, and do you think Tony and Dawn made it this far— dancing and dancing until they collapsed on the floor? He comes with a beautiful groan and a jerk of his hips, and the familiar wet warmth of him inside her is enough to bring tears to her eyes.

He holds her afterwards, kisses her cheekbones, her eyelids, her ears, and for a while, they pretend it's as easy as that. Left foot pivot, kick-ball-change. Simple.

It's not though. It's never simple. But it _is_ better. Twenty-five years is a lot of choreography to master. There's blocking and positioning, arms and feet. Aliens, conspiracies, and viruses. Angels on your shoulder and devils, too. Distant sons and comfortable couches, and an apartment ceiling that's been waiting on those three perfect knocks for years.

Their breaths tangle with each other across the pillow, and their limbs do the same beneath the sheets. Their hearts— well, their hearts are about as knotted together as it's possible for hearts to be…

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. She looks across the gym and she counts. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.

The trick will be to stay there.


End file.
